


la soñadora

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Christianity, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: In an abandoned mining town in the middle of Texas, Dean, Sam and Castiel happen upon the bodies of twelve dead angels, nailed to the side of a church. Castiel knows all of them, only, he can't remember why. And after help from Dean and Sam, the truth comes to light—That Castiel is the guardian of Jesus Christ's tomb, and his name is last on the list to die.THIS FIC WILL NOT BE FINISHED and can be read as a standalone. See notes at the beginning and end.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	la soñadora

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC WILL NOT BE FINISHED. I originally intended to finish this but I've lost direction as to how to do so. There's a 5% chance I'll complete this, but as of right now, it's not happening. I won't be accepting requests by others to finish this on my behalf. This can be read as a standalone, as it doesn't end on a cliffhanger.
> 
> This takes place alternate to season six, where Sam miraculously survived Hell and Castiel and Raphael called a truce.

Aside from a couple tourist outposts, there’s absolutely nothing in Terlingua, Texas. Nothing but dilapidated ruins of a former mining town and sand everywhere, and the dozen corpses nailed to the sides of a brick church. Nailed—not just hung, not propped up, but physically nailed to the siding, sharpened railroad ties jammed through their hands and feet and throats. All mirroring the same position, all with their backs ripped open and flayed outwards to resemble wings, all eyeless and mouths caught in a perpetual scream.

The wind howls around them, kicking up dirt. Tourists take pictures with their phones and chatter amongst themselves. Dean pukes into a tumbleweed, waving off Sam’s attempts to help. “Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, wiping his mouth with his shirt collar. “What kinda sick joke is this?”

“A very impractical one,” Castiel says above the gusts. His coattails sway around his ankles, blending eerily into the landscape. “These were angels.”

Dean rights himself, a hand over his mouth. At his side, Sam squints, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun overhead. This far south, the temperature has to be somewhere around one hundred, maybe one twenty if Dean is willing to exaggerate. He’s halfway to ripping his shirt off himself; he can’t imagine how Castiel must feel, dressed in a suit and coat and looking every bit as alien as the limestone cliffs.

“How do you figure?” Sam asks, turning his gaze away from Dean and back to the church. On the roof, crows are beginning to gather, beaks clacking while they call to each other. If he could, Dean would strangle every last one of them. “I mean, I guessed from the whole… mutilation thing, but how? Who were they?”

To Dean’s shock, Castiel shakes his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. “They weren’t in possession of their Grace when they died,” he rumbles, his disbelief palpable.

Dean’s stomach turns dangerously just thinking about it, about what they must’ve gone through in their final moments, the pain they must’ve felt. Briefly, he wonders if they were alive when they were strung up, and how long it took for them to finally die. Dean has seen many horrible, nightmare-inducing things in his life, but this easily tops the scale of nauseating to curled into the fetal position.

“So someone took their Grace and then crucified them?” Dean asks, forcing himself to smile. Smiling helps to keep from puking, or so says the television. Sam just shoots him a look, brows furrowed, lips downturned. “And not just one, but twelve?”

“I’m just as in the dark as you are,” Castiel says. Turning his back, he looks to the sky, eyes closed. Listening, Dean presumes, to any angel left to talk to him. After the last few months, Dean honestly wouldn’t blame any of his siblings if they abandoned him altogether. Too many dead angels—just what they need, twelve more to add on the burn pile. The distance in his gaze gives Dean pause when Castiel finally looks back to him, pupils blown in broad daylight.

That can’t be good.

Neither is the blade Castiel drops from his sleeve, hilt in his hand before Dean can even reach for him to stop. “Dude, chill,” Dean hisses just as Castiel faces the church, prepared to sprint for it if he has to. Just barely, Dean holds him back, slipping his hand into the band around Castiel’s coat cuff. “No one’s here except a bunch of tourists.”

Low, Castiel growls. Again, Dean’s stomach clenches, but this time, he holds it back.

“Cas,” Sam starts, his boots crunching in the sand. “Cas, what is it?”

Castiel shakes his head vehemently, but ultimately composes himself, his shoulders slumping ever so minutely. “Apostles,” he says. Sam’s ears perk up. Dean just stares, dumbfounded. “These were the guardians of the tombs of the Apostles. All twelve of them.”

Dean blinks. Blinks again, all he can manage to do without his voice. “You mean, _the_ Apostles,” he sputters. “The Last Supper Apostles?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers. Sighs. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Yeah, we can—” Sam thumbs back to the Impala, parked in front of a weathered brick shack. “C’mon. Before the real Feds show up.”

-+-

Honestly, Dean has stayed in worse dumps in his life, but not ones this… unique, for a better choice of words. All across the south end of Marathon are Adobe buildings shaped like beehives and many more shapes he can’t even describe. Out of all of them, they’re stuck in a one-bed square box crammed with useless furniture and handmade rugs and a bathroom with very little privacy. At least it’s only for one more night, he thinks, washing his face clean in the sink for the third time, trying to wash the dirt out of his eyeballs. Then they can go to a real hotel, with beds he doesn’t have to share with his brother and restaurants that don’t make him queasy.

They should’ve kept driving. Should’ve ignored Tracy’s tip and just kept heading towards El Paso. Should’ve not spent two hours on the road just to find a bunch of dead angels left to rot in the desert sun. If only Dean could scrub the image from his mind, then maybe he could sleep tonight. 

Furiously, Castiel paces back and forth across the brown-and-turquoise rug, both hands in his hair, while Sam finishes the last of his lackluster pizza, the only food in town they could all stomach without thinking of shredded meat. “You have to know something,” Sam says after he throws the remnants of his food in the trash, afterwards returning to the mattress, where he reclines against the headboard. “These were your… They’re angels, right? I thought you knew everyone.”

“I do,” Castiel says, too harsh for Dean’s liking, but entirely understandable. “I do, but I don’t remember their names. I don’t…” A laugh, disembodied. His lips twist into a pained grin. “I’ve forgotten. Whoever they were, I can’t remember. All I know is that… I knew them once. Their Grace, their mission, but… Nothing.”

Dean claps Castiel’s shoulder, letting it linger just long enough for Castiel to settle, easing the stiffness in his shoulders. “You remembered the most important part,” Dean assures him, to which Castiel nods, sighing through his nose. “Whatever it means, we’ll figure it out. But for now, you gotta sit.” Before he can think better of it, Dean pushes Castiel towards the unoccupied side of the bed, next to where Sam is busy punching the knots out of the pillow. “It’s my turn to take the sleeping bag. You get dibs on the bed.”

“I don’t sleep,” Castiel says, the slightest bit pitiful, but he sits anyway, hands folded in his lap. “I don’t know what—”

“It’ll be fine, Cas,” Sam says, cupping Castiel’s shoulder. “Like Dean said, we’ll figure out what’s going on, and we’ll go from there. But there’s nothing we can do until we get as far away from here as we can.”

Dean nods, eyelids heavy. Too much driving today, and too much sun. The last thing he wants to do is sleep on the floor, but they’re supposed to be alternating shifts. If need be, he can always sleep in the Impala with the windows rolled down. “Something creepy about this whole damn state,” he mutters, palming his eyes. “Felt like I’ve had eyes on me the minute we got outta Austin.”

“I’ll drive tomorrow,” Sam yawns. He ducks under the blankets and shoves the pillow over his face, blocking out the last vestiges of sunlight. “Let you nurse your back, big baby.”

All Dean does is snort, his heart not in much else other than passing out for the rest of the night. Still too early to sleep by his standards, but after today, they all desperately need it, especially Castiel, even if he meditates or does… whatever it is he does when they’re asleep. For all Dean knows, he probably flies off somewhere until it’s time to tend to earthly duties once again. Heaven wants nothing to do with him anymore, and Dean is just now learning to trust him again.

They should really talk at some point. Hopefully soon, before they get wrapped up in another case.

Sam conks out shortly after, and from the floor, Dean watches the sun sink beyond the small window, bringing with it the navies and purples of night, and the ever-increasing cold seeping through the crack under the door. Amidst the sound of Sam’s content snores, Castiel shuffles on the other side of the bed, sitting atop the blankets while staring down at the phone in his hands, face bathed blue.

Over the years, Dean has grown used to the quiet that night brings. Still, that doesn’t make him feel any better, especially when sleep won’t come. At some point, he pulls himself from the floor and ambles outside, dressed only in socks and loose-fitting sweatpants, shivering the minute he closes the door. Out here, the night is stagnant, the only noise that of the fire pit, leg burning and abandoned by whoever else is staying in the hostel. Overhead, the stars glitter under the absence of the moon.

Admittingly, that should unnerve Dean more than the footsteps creeping behind him. Dean knows that sound regardless, has memorized it over the last few years, just as a reminder to keep him sane. To remind him of simpler times, when all they had to do was worry about the apocalypse, and not… whatever this is between them.

“You should take the bed,” Castiel says, in way of compromise. Dean shakes his head, seating himself atop a rock by the fire. “We… shouldn’t have come here.”

“Got that right,” Dean says. Running a hand through his hair, he glances over to see Castiel sit beside him, half hanging off the rock and half leaning on Dean for support. At least, support is what Dean will call it. “Tempted to just jump in the car and get outta here. Fuck this… hostel thing, or whatever it’s called.”

“It’s quirky.” Shrugging, Castiel bows his head. “Maybe another time, it would be more enjoyable.”

“Too hot now,” Dean sighs. He leans back into Castiel, heart caught in his throat with Castiel’s sudden inhale. “You… How’re you doing, anyway? Haven’t really said much since you got back.”

For a while—for a few agonizingly silent minutes, actually—Castiel doesn’t answer, just stares into the smoldering fire, its light dying as the night ticks on. Before he can stop himself, Dean palms Castiel’s knee, lingering too long to be considered platonic, but Castiel never tells him to stop.

“I gave up,” Castiel finally admits, earning Dean’s horror. He gave up—after all of the lies, the betrayal, the rendezvous with Crowley of all people, Castiel gave up? “Our armies weren’t gaining any ground, you have to understand. Countless angels were dying for reasons we were starting to doubt, and we couldn’t sustain the losses.”

Swallowing, Dean turns from the fire to Castiel, the flames flickering across his face, casting his eyes in red. “So you just… quit? Called a truce, what?”

“Raphael and I both conceded defeat,” Castiel says, every bit as ashamed as he looks. Dean squeezes his knee tighter, not out of anger, but acceptance. Comforting in the only way he can, through touch. “And I left, before I could cause any more damage. You were the first person I called, and yet, I still couldn’t… begin to explain how humiliating this all has been.” A pause; a sigh. “I should’ve listened to you. Knowing what I do now… I could’ve saved myself the expense, and you as well.”

After all that, all Dean can do is nod. Running his thumb over Castiel’s knee doesn’t help, but it diffuses the tension, a reminder that he’s there for Castiel, that he isn’t going anywhere. “I’m glad you figured it out,” Dean manages, exhaling through his nose. “Just… it sucks, y’know. And I know you were doing it for the greater good, but it still… You fucked up, man.” He stops to laugh, covering his eyes. “You fucked up so bad. Everything we had, and you still… I knew you’d come back, but the last thing I thought you’d be is alive.”

Castiel blinks, long, slow, more of a brief respite than anything else. “After everything we went through,” he begins, toeing his boot in the sand, “I thought we would be able to live in peace. And Raphael threatened that, and I couldn’t stand by and watch you suffer again, all because he wanted to finish a war that no one wanted.”

“You’ve always been one for the greater good,” Dean says, to Castiel’s defeated agreement. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you came back. All me and Sam have ever wanted is for you to come home, to just talk to us if you have any other hairbrained plans in that head of yours.” He rubs Castiel’s knee, feeling him soften. Close as they are, pressed arm to arm, Dean feels Castiel sigh. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. Just don’t go running off again. We needed you, man. Hell… I needed you, and I never knew where you were. You could’ve died—”

“But I didn’t.” Castiel’s hands fidget between his knees; Dean covers them with his own. “I did what I could to end the bloodshed, and I’ll continue to carry that weight. But it’s… nice, to remember that I have someone to come home to.”

Dean doesn’t answer, not immediately, anyway. Swallowing, he looks back to the fire, willingly ignorant of his hand still touching Castiel’s. Never once does Castiel attempt to stray away either, even when Dean leans his cheek atop Castiel’s shoulder, the silence too much to bear. Unsteadily, his heat pounds. Only Castiel has been able to do this to him, ever since they met three, four years ago. One look, and Dean all but melts, from lust to admiration, ultimately to affection.

And worst of all, is that Castiel knows, or at least Dean thinks he does. Whether or not it’s requited is the question that’s floated on Dean’s tongue ever since Castiel returned, that’s lingered ever since he moved in with—and left—Lisa.

 _No better time than the present_ , Dean thinks, eyes pinched shut. “Can I ask you something?” he says, refusing to look at Castiel.

What Dean does instead is kiss him, more of a press of mouths than an actual kiss. The angle is awkward, their noses smashed together near-painfully, but Castiel moves just the slightest and— _that’s it_. For what feels like an eternity, they trade slow, languid kisses as the fire dies, its warmth replaced by Castiel’s hand on Dean’s shoulder, drifting down his arm. Dean caresses his cheek, just to do something with his hands that doesn’t involve involuntarily attempting to rip Castiel’s clothes off. Not tonight, and probably not in the near future, with how their luck has been going lately, but this is enough for him, feeling Castiel there with him, in his grasp.

Castiel is the first to pull away, to Dean’s horror, but he never does stray. He rests their foreheads together in the dimming light. “That’s an unorthodox question,” he says, mirthful, and Dean laughs as quietly as he can. “Though it has its benefits.”

“Always sucked with words,” Dean murmurs. He sneaks in another kiss before making his way to his feet. The firewood collapses in on itself, spitting embers into the air. “C’mon. Gonna freeze out here at this rate.”

“You should take the bed,” Castiel repeats, treading after him. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean swallows, hoping the night can hide his shame.

-+-

Castiel lingers. That’s the first thing Dean notices in the morning, is that he lingers. Specifically, by the window, his attention focused on the Impala parked out front and the vast desert beyond them, dust blowing in the sudden wind. A storm is coming from the east, Dean suspects; they need to leave now, before they get caught up in it and get trapped in this hellhole.

The entire time Dean and Sam pack up their belongings and steal the hostel toiletries, Castiel stays by the window, never exactly moving, but never not, either. In fact, if Dean looked hard enough, he could swear he sees Castiel’s hands trembling.

“What’s up?” Sam asks after he deposits the room key at the front office. Heading back to the car, he props his arms atop the roof. “You've been off since… last night, really.”

At first, Castiel shakes his head, but follows it up with a huff. “We need to go back,” he says. Dean, while shoving the last of their belongings into the trunk, stands up fast enough to smack his head against the metal. “I feel like we left something behind.”

“No way,” Dean hisses, rubbing the back of his head. No blood. A good sign, probably. “I don’t care what you think is there, I’m not driving—”

“You don’t have to drive,” Castiel says, and reaches out, clasping his hand around both of their shoulders. The Impala is a sudden distant memory.

Ground ripped from beneath him, Dean has half a second to consider once again what weightlessness feels like before they touch down two hours south of Marathon, back in the same fly-riddle hellscape they vacated less than twenty-four hours before. Only this time, no tourists flock to the church to snap photos in the daylight. Strangely, the bodies are still crucified to their perches, one or two fallen into the sand face-down, while the others slump forward, threatening to fall.

Dean’s only saving grace is that he hasn’t had breakfast yet.

Sam, to his credit, covers his mouth with his shirt as he follows Castiel, squinting in the burgeoning dawn. “What do you think is here?” he asks, glancing around the building.

Where Castiel has gone, Dean doesn’t have to look far. Nose plugged, he follows Castiel around every corner of the church, careful to avoid puddles of god-knows-what has been leaking out of the corpses. He and Sam round the structure just in time to find Castiel standing before one of the angels, hands at his sides and eyes wider than Dean has ever seen them. What Castiel sees, Dean can’t begin to understand, but Castiel must understand the full breadth of.

Enochian is scrawled across the entire chest of one of the corpses, collar to navel, the bloodied incisions caked with sand and barely visible. “Cas,” Sam says, stealing the words from Dean’s confused tongue. “Cas, what does it say?

“‘He who guards the Savior’s tomb shall perish,’” Castiel says, barely above a whisper.

“And who’s that talking about?” Dean asks, hesitant.

Slowly, Castiel looks between them, then back to the body, then to the sky. “I don’t remember, but…” He stops, closes his eyes. “They used my sigil. It’s… I’m next.” A breath—a wheeze. “I’m the guardian.”

-+-+-+-

Castiel doesn’t sleep, not very often. Even if he does, he never fully lets himself fall unconscious, out of fear of what happens when he does eventually slip under. Two days later, sleep, he finds, is all he desires. The bleakness of a world without color, without sense; the desire to cease to be, even for a few hours. Death, but impermanent. 

Maybe then, he could shake the weight bearing down his Grace.

Thirty minutes ago—maybe more, Castiel stopped counting after they left Terlingua—Dean left the air conditioned splendor of their room for the pool, supposedly to relax. Though, Castiel suspects, it may have something to do with getting away from him, at least for the time being. Not out of embarrassment, but maybe to clear his head, to piece the last few days together. In all honesty, Castiel would do the same if he could.

“I’ve tried everything,” Sam eventually groans from the small table in the corner of the room, palming his eyes. Before him sits a laptop and more papers than Castiel is willing to count, all printed out from the Regalodge Motel office’s archaic contraption. “I’ve been elbow deep in everything I could dig up on the Apostles for the last two days, and there’s just… nothing on their guardians.”

Exhausted, Castiel lets himself fall, his back hitting the mattress with a thud. “I’m sorry for putting you through this,” he says. “I thought at least…”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sam sighs, shakes his head. “I just wish we had something more to go off of. Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

If only Castiel could remember. For the last forty-eight hours, he’s tried everything to jog his memory, down to recounting every encounter he’s ever had with other angels. But there’s nothing. Gaps fill his memory at pivotal points, entire decades lost and buried somewhere deep, deeper than he can retrieve. Something happened to him at one point, but what it is, Castiel wishes he knew.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel exhales, barely a breath in him. He turns his head, eyeing the ruffled pillows by the headboard. Dean’s pillow. When did he end up on Dean’s bed? “I’m trying, but I just… can’t remember. You have to understand, how helpless this feels.”

“No, I get it.” Standing, Sam makes his way across the room, seating himself on the opposite mattress. “Trust me, I do. What we do… You just can’t help but not know what to do sometimes. I think the last few years have proved that.”

Castiel fists the bedspread, smoothing it out afterward. “It was never your place to be forced into the apocalypse, especially given the outcome.” With a grunt, he pushes himself up, covering his eyes with his hands. If only he could sleep. If only he could cease.

“But we’re here for you.” Bridging the gap, Sam reaches across to clasp his hand over Castiel’s shoulder, steady, warm. “Me and Dean, we’re gonna help you figure this out. Even if it means we have to get our hands dirty, we’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” Castiel eventually says, long after Sam removes his hand. “I just… don’t want to burden you with my problems. These angels—”

“You weren’t involved,” Sam says. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Castiel lets out a breath, averts his eyes. “It wasn’t yours, either,” he says. For a long moment, Sam doesn’t answer, his attention locked on his bare feet. “Listen to me.” And Castiel crosses the short distance between them to take Sam’s face in hand, tilting his gaze upwards. “What you’ve been through, what we put you thought, this wasn’t your fault. We never… I never wanted to see you hurt. Either of you, and I’ve sworn my life to keeping you safe.”

“You don't think we’d take a bullet for you?” Sam asks, completely genuine. Shame burns through Castiel, knowing how much it hurts. “You’re our best friend, Cas, and that means we’re gonna do stupid shit for each other, even if it means one of us gets hurt in the process. So whatever this is, we’re gonna get through it, together. You just gotta trust us.”

“I’ve done everything to make you despise me,” Castiel says, a bit too seriously. Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ve betrayed both you and your brother, yet you still…”

“Because you’re family.” Sam stands then, looming, his hands vicelike on Castiel’s biceps. “Me and Dean, we have our differences, but we’re still here for each other. That means you too. So what we’re gonna do, is we’re gonna help you get your memory back, and whatever’s there, we’ll fix it. Alright?”

“What’s alright?” Dean asks from the doorway.

Sam backs away enough for Castiel to finally spot Dean. A twinge runs through his wings, tucked away from sight. In the sunlight, gleaned with sweat and smelling of chlorine, Dean looks beautiful, reddened from the sun yet glowing. He dries his hair with one of the motel towels and casts it in the direction of the bathroom, missing entirely. Half-nude as he is, Castiel can’t help but stare, even after Sam clears his throat.

“Cas can’t remember anything about the angels,” Sam says. “Like, really can’t remember.”

Pointedly, Castiel glances away, directing his attention out the window. Anywhere that isn’t Dean’s bare back and the scars littering his spine. “I don’t know how to describe it.” Crossing the room, Castiel places both hands on the windowsill, peering out between the gap in the sheer curtains at the parking lot and the water settling in the now-vacant pool. “I’m supposed to be able to recall every individual second of every event that ever took place, but yet there’s… nothing where there should be something.”

Dean shrugs on a shirt, out of the range of Castiel’s vision. Castiel imagines it all the same, the way the fabric spills over his skin, muscles flexing as they move. He shouldn’t lust as much as he does, but now that he’s allowed to—after Dean kissed him of his own free will—he can’t help himself. “There anything we can do to jog your memory?” Dean asks from inside the bathroom, the door cracked enough for his voice to seep through. “Fuck, we don’t gotta summon someone, do we?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Castiel assures. At least, he hopes so.

“There’s all kinds of sensory experiences we could try,” Sam suggests, arms crossed. “Maybe if we went somewhere that could jog your memory?”

“Or drugs,” Dean chimes in. Sam glares at him as he emerges from the bathroom, once again dressed but sans socks. The tips of his ears burn red from the sun. 

“Right,” Sam huffs. “Because getting an angel high off peyote’s gonna help a lot.”

“Not peyote,” Dean shoots back. “Something stronger. Really get the juices flowing, right?” Playfully, he brushes Castiel’s shoulder with his own, jostling him, and Castiel lets himself sway, just to please him. “Seriously, can that work?”

Technically, Castiel doesn’t know. Some of his siblings might know exactly how human psychedelics work on angels, but Castiel has no practical knowledge on the subject. “It couldn’t hurt,” he admits. Sam throws his head back in defeat. “But I’m not sure what you’re hoping to achieve.”

Dean’s grin widens further, only deepening Sam’s agitation. “C’mon, like you said, it can’t hurt. People trip off ayahuasca all the time, maybe angels can do the same thing.”

“You’re such an ass,” Sam groans and throws his hands up. “How do you even know this stuff?”

Dean flushes, his ears even redder now. “Besides the point, Sammy. Look, I know a guy who owes me a favor and can probably get the stuff to us in a day. In the meantime,” he nudges Castiel again, softer this time, garnering Castiel’s smile, “we can chill out. It’s been… a long time since we’ve just sat around.”

With visible reluctance, Sam sighs through his nose, but ultimately assents. “It just… doesn’t feel right,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, bodies don't just pop up for no reason, and especially angels.”

“I know.” Castiel turns to the window once again. “I don’t like it just as much as either of you, but… for now, we have to wait.”

Dean and Sam nod. Castiel bows his head and turns his eyes to the pool. _If only it were that simple_ , he thinks. If only this made more sense.

-+-

In Yuma, the sun doesn’t fully go down until eight in the afternoon. And after, the heat sticks around, nauseatingly dry even in the pitch darkness. Much to Castiel’s relief, Dean spends the rest of the day indoors with the air conditioning, stirring the contents of a pot on a portable stove top while sitting in front of the television, looking as enrapt as ever as he watches something about a man who chooses to live in the woods after a life in the Army.

Sam sleeps through the entire movie, not that Castiel blames him. The last few months have been taxing on the both of them, and for the first time in weeks, they both have the luxury to relax in solitude, away from the world and the hum of engines, the chatter of strangers. The terror of silence.

“Do you think this will actually work?” Castiel asks in a whisper. He slides off the bed to join Dean on the floor, where Dean is busy stirring pressed vines in a thickening broth. “Or are you getting ahead of yourself?”

Dean snorts, never once looking away from the screen. Castiel elects to watch his wrist for a while, at how dexterously it moves and flexes with every rotation, nimble fingers guiding the wooden spoon in rhythmic circles. “I’ve only done it once,” he admits, sheepish. He falters a bit, and only from the guidance of Castiel’s hand on his does he keep going. “Did a ton of stupid stuff growing up. Thought I was gonna die until it wore off, but… The things I saw, I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

Castiel nods, leaning into Dean’s side. “I doubt I’ll have the same experience, but I’m glad that you’re helping,” he says. Beside him, Dean smiles. Before Castiel can fully catalogue just how bright he looks, Dean leans over to kiss his cheek, well out of sight of Sam. In kind, Castiel returns the kiss, this one to Dean’s lips, and Dean practically giggles into his mouth, his excitement palpable. “You’re blushing,” Castiel says when Dean pulls away. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Kinda can’t help it,” Dean says, swaying. This is happiness, Castiel figures. Sitting on a grimy motel floor, shoulder to shoulder with an angel, Dean is genuinely happy, the fear in his eyes extinguished in the face of love. If only Castiel could have him like this forever—if only that made things easier. “Hey, how long do you think it’ll last for you? Last time I did it, I was out of my mind for half the day.”

“Maybe a few minutes.” Shrugging, Castiel watches Dean’s hands, head perched atop Dean’s shoulder. Sam stirs from the bed, mumbling about something Castiel can’t distinguish; whatever it is, he elects to ignore it. “Hopefully long enough to learn what we need.”

A nod, followed by Dean’s soft humming. The mattress creaks; Sam makes his way out of bed, disappearing behind the bathroom door. “Should we tell him?” Dean asks, the barest hints of fear lingering in his voice. “Y’know, about…”

“We don’t have to if you’re not ready,” Castiel says. He kisses Dean’s cheek, garnering another smile, this one smaller, hidden. “He wouldn’t shame you, if you were wondering. If anything, I think he’d be happy for you.”

“I know,” Dean sighs. “I just… worry. Not just about him, but about… us. What if I screw up?” Castiel catches the shine in Dean’s eyes, the tremble of his lips. “What if one of us ends up dead? I feel like I lost you for a while there, and now you’re back, and I… I don’t wanna go through that again.”

Gently, Castiel nudges him and covers Dean’s hand with his own. The heat from the tea warms his fingers, even more than Dean’s skin. “You won’t,” Castiel promises. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I won’t do the same with you.”

Impossibly, Dean flushes even further. He smiles and rubs his eyes dry. “You’re such a sap,” he laughs, just as Sam reemerges from the bathroom.

It only occurs to Castiel then that he and Dean are still holding hands, a sight in which Sam eyes with skepticism, but doesn’t comment on. Castiel releases Dean and allows him to keep stirring, the tea thickening incrementally. “There’s rain supposed to come in tonight,” Sam says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “How early do you think we should head out?”

“As soon as night falls,” Castiel says, lifting his head. “This shouldn’t take long.”

“I just hope you’re both right.” Shaking his head, Sam rakes his hair back, tucking a few strands behind his ear. “This whole thing just reeks of bad news. And not what Dean’s brewing either.”

“Yeah, well, your shit don’t smell like roses either,” Dean huffs.

Sudden, Sam laughs. His eyes wrinkle at the edges, and Castiel takes a moment to look at him, to see the jump in his soul, pulsing gold, yet still mending. It’ll take time, but the both of them will recover from Hell, and when that time comes, Castiel will still be there, with open arms, for the both of them.

At least, he hopes he will.

-+-

Even with the sun fallen below the horizon, Castiel sweats through his clothes. Fabric chafes his skin, and even after ridding himself of every article he can, he burns. The Impala’s air conditioner can only do so much in this heat. Leaving the back seat sounds like the worst idea in the world.

“Okay, game plan,” Sam says from the passenger seat, a phone in one hand and a tumbler full of scalding tea in the other. While he speaks, Dean pulls into park along the side of a service road and shuts off the engine, bathing the three of them in pitch darkness, no moon to light their way. “Dean’s gonna light the fire and start the ceremony, and I’ll keep watch, because one of us has to be an independent party to all this.”

“I appreciate your help,” Castiel rasps. He unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, relishing in the air against his skin. The rest of his clothing sits in a pile in the adjacent seat. “Do you remember the spell I gave you?”

Sam nods. “Do you think we’ll really need to use it though? You can just… stop the effects, right?”

“In theory, yes,” Castiel says, unsure. Closing his body off to all feeling shouldn’t be that difficult, but it’s always been one that Castiel has loathed to act on. During his three years on Earth, Castiel has come to long for the sensation of touch and the warmth of praise, the pang in his heart when he knows he’s overstepped his boundaries. Shutting all that off leaves him bereft, the unfamiliarity of it terrifying. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Dean rotates in his seat, the leather creaking. “Just don’t get stuck like that,” he huffs, not unkindly. “Last thing we want is for you to unlearn everything we’ve taught you.”

“Maybe some of it,” Sam adds humorously. Dean doesn’t laugh. Castiel smiles and pats Sam’s shoulder. “C’mon, before it starts raining.”

In the night air, the Impala spits and rattles as the engine cools, her noises growing softer as the three of them tread through the sand and dust, making their way towards a drying riverbed. Whatever the water level, Castiel can’t see; based on the silence he finds, it can’t be much. Dean and Sam scour the desert for wood and come back with a substantial pile, enough for a few hours. The remnants, they can toss in the river once they’re done. No trace of their existence, not even footprints after the storm.

While Sam constructs the pile between them, Castiel sits and looks up to the stars, counting every speck of light he can see. Here, thousands of pinpricks light the sky, occasionally blotted out by a passing cloud or the lone bird that keeps circling them. As soon as the fire begins to burn, it flees.

“Alright, buddy,” Dean announces, clapping his dusty hands on his jeans. He takes the tumbler and hands it to Castiel, lid unscrewed. Castiel winces with the smell, much to Dean’s amusement. “Don't gotta chug it all, but you gotta get enough down before you hurl.”

“Before I what?” Castiel balks.

Sam echoes the same sentiment, both eyebrows raised in the firelight. “Dude, you never said he was gonna puke.”

“He might not,” Dean says, hands raised. “He’s an angel, who knows what he’ll do! He could grow another head or something—”

“That’s highly improbable, Dean.”

“Dean, I’ve never done ayahuasca and even I know that.”

“But the point still stands.” Dean brushes the dirt from his shoes before he sits before the fire, undoing all of his work. “Bottoms up?”

Right. Nodding, Castiel looks down to the tumbler in his hands. Red light reflects off the muddied surface of the liquid, solid in texture but smelling of rot and decay. He starts off as slow as he can manage, the brim of the mug against his lips, and briefly he sends up a prayer that he can mute his sense of taste. He downs half of the container before setting it aside, every one of his senses revolting. Now, he understands what Dean meant.

Somewhere close to him, Dean takes the mug and backs away. “It’ll take a bit to really kick in,” he says, his words already slurring. Castiel doubts that entirely. “Let us know when—”

Castiel promptly turns around and retches into the riverbed, eyes stinging when he comes up for air. The ground doesn’t feel right, the sand crumbling into nothing in his hands. Overhead, the stars rotate in uneven circles, his unfocused eyes searching for something to hold onto, to tether him to the ground. “There you go,” Dean says, impossibly loud. Castiel swings his arm out in self-defense, and Dean steps back, palms bared.

Dean—Dean is here. Out of everything, Castiel can see Dean, soul swirling pleasantly and reaching out to him. Has he always been that bright? “Can you follow me?” Dean asks, steady amidst the chaos. “Castiel, can you see me?”

Sam says something. Castiel hears him in his periphery, but whatever the words, he can’t discern. All he can see is Dean and Dean’s beautifully glowing soul, the light pulsing at his core. “I think it’s working,” Castiel says, the words garbled in his mouth. The moment Dean takes his hands, Castiel nearly collapses, the longing held there too much to bear. Eyes rolling back, he shivers and allows Dean to lead him, to walk him in circles, or squares, or wherever. Whatever the location, all Castiel knows is Dean.

And then Sam speaks, even louder than Dean’s own voice, God-like in intensity. “Who is the last guardian?” he asks.

Castiel struggles not to cower. Dean keeps him upright, hands in his own. The fire continues to burn, the crackling reminiscent of gunshots. Sweat beads on the back of Castiel’s neck. “I am the guardian,” he says, head lolling. “I guard Jesus Christ’s tomb.”

Dean stops. Castiel doesn’t want him to stop. All at once, his shirt fits too tight around his chest, and Castiel pulls away to fumble with the buttons, fingers refusing to work how he wants them to. The second he shrugs it off, he allows his wings to spill free, the two appendages dragging through the sand. He shivers with the sensation. Neither Dean nor Sam speak, and Castiel looks up, swaying from side to side as he watches the sky spin.

“Castiel,” Sam says, startling him from his trance. He turns in Sam’s vague direction, still unfocused. Dean helps him stand, and his wing drapes over Dean’s back, desperate to draw him closer. “Why aren’t you at your post?”

Violently, Castiel shakes his head, laughing. _I’ve lost my mind_ , he thinks—and he can’t bring himself to care. “I lost faith, after He died,” he says, stumbling. Dean holds him up, his rock. “I couldn’t bear to see Him like that. I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. Why do you love me?” He turns to Dean, cradling Dean’s face in his hands. Tear tracks mar his face, and Castiel craves to lick them away. “I don’t want you to die, not like Him.”

Dean blinks, the green in his eyes melting, dripping— _Dean is melting_. “Sam, you gotta call it off,” he begs, just as Castiel begins to tremble, his world slipping away. “Sam—”

“Make it stop,” Castiel cries, covering Dean’s eyes with his thumbs. “Make it stop, make it—”

The words crash over Castiel like a wave, crumbling his body and sending him to the desert floor. Dean follows him, checking Castiel over with his hands. He keeps away from his wings, much to Castiel’s relief. Sam joins them, a constant stream of “Are you okay? Did we kill you?” falling from his lips. Castiel would laugh, if he could feel anything other than the guilt of the world bearing down on his shoulders.

“I abandoned our Savior,” Castiel mourns, grief-stricken, much to Dean’s terrified stare. A hand cradles the back of his head. Castiel wants to weep, just from how tender his touch is. “I abandoned Him.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says. He takes Castiel’s hand in his own, rubbing life back into his frigid skin. “It’s okay, Cas, really.”

“Just come back to us,” Dean continues, attempting to smile.

In the shadow of Castiel’s tears, he swears Dean is crying along with him.

-+-

The pool isn’t the best place to have a serious conversation, Sam recognizes, but right now, it’s the only place in the whole motel that doesn’t involve the front desk clerk loitering too close or listening to Castiel snore.

For now, he makes do and seats himself in one of the plastic chairs at the far end of the pool, Dean following not far behind two plates of waffles in hand. He sets them on the table between them, and Sam takes one of the forks and knives Dean offers and slices into the syrup-covered monstrosity Dean created. “I’m surprised he’s still asleep,” he says through a mouthful of batter, catching Dean’s nod. “You sure he’s fine?”

“He’s great,” Dean garbles, already on his second bite. “All he needs is a few more hours and he’ll be good as new. Takes a couple days to get it out of your system. Even for angels, I guess.”

“Still never told me how you know all this stuff,” Sam huffs.

Not that he expects Dean to tell him in the first place, but still, it would be nice if he at least attempted. The number of secrets they refuse to acknowledge must be in the thousands now. This wouldn’t even be scratching the surface, what Dean has done over the course of his life. For all of the years they spent together growing up, never once had he ever seen nor noticed Dean up to anything suspicious. Or, maybe he just wasn’t looking hard enough.

Looking back, there are a lot of things he hasn’t noticed about Dean—regarding Castiel, in particular. “Are you two together?” he asks, blasé as he can manage, and Dean chokes on his waffle. “I don’t care if you are, but—”

“It’s—not a big deal,” Dean manages, beating his chest. He downs half of his cup of orange juice before speaking again, head bowed. Red paints the tips of his ears. “It’s still… new. Like, a few days ago new.”

Sam blinks, glancing over his shoulder to their room number, where Castiel is hopefully still asleep. “After everything he pulled over the last year, you still… Can we still trust him?”

Faintly, Dean nods. The weight in Sam’s heart settles, not enough to really be comforting, but it’s a step in the right direction. “I really hope so. He’s always had his heart in the right place, but he’s… learning. He’s made mistakes, and he’s owning up to them. That’s gotta count for something.”

“I just really hope you’re right,” Sam mumbles. “And now we have to make sense of whatever…” he gestures vaguely towards the sky, “this is. I mean, Jesus?”

At that, Dean laughs. “I got no clue, Sammy. I mean, three years ago, I didn’t think angels were real. Y’know, some fairy tale just to make kids think they’re safe. And now, you’re tellin’ me Cas, the guy who got stoned off his ass last night, is the one that’s supposed to be watching over Jesus’ grave?”

It sounds even more implausible out loud. Shaking his head, Sam sets down his fork, breakfast mostly eaten but now too soggy to stomach. Next time, he won’t let Dean get his hands on the syrup. “It makes sense. Think about it, what do you think would happen if people desecrated the graves of the most holy men in existence?”

“Bad shit,” Dean says. He steals the rest of Sam’s waffle and slaps it on his plate. “Talk about black magic gone worse.”

“So their graves are all open now.” Leaning back, Sam runs a hand through his hair. “They don’t have angels to protect them, so if anyone wanted to just dig through a couple feet of concrete, it’s possible.”

“But no one knows where the big guy’s buried,” Dean points out, which, true. “No one except Cas, right?”

Sam shrugs. “And I don’t know if Cas even knows anymore. People have searched for centuries, and no one’s come to one conclusion as to where He is. Hell, there’s some people that even think He’s buried in Japan.” Dean snorts, but otherwise listens. “The point is, Cas remembered something that wasn’t even buried that deep last night. Imagine if someone got their hands on him and had something worse than some root tea.”

Dean glances up, swallowing thick around the last of his food. Concern sits heavy in his eyes, and Sam knows all too well how much the thought of losing Castiel weighs on him. Dean had to deal with the loss and retrieval of his brother’s soul and potentially Castiel’s life as well—anything more, and he might break from the strain. “So you’re not thinking angel then?” Dean asks, and Sam nods.

“I don’t think Raphael would murder his own out of spite,” Sam says. “The war is over, right?”

“According to Cas, yeah.” Fork set down, Dean scoots over to recline on the cheap plastic loungers. “Said they called a truce, if you can believe it.”

“I do,” Sam sighs. “Trust me, I get it. But I just don’t think the angels would care anymore. So all logical signs point to—”

“Demons,” Dean finishes. Just the creatures Sam never intented to meet again, _demons_. “But what would demons want with Jesus?”

 _Lots of reasons_ , Sam thinks. _Like resurrecting Him_. The thought sits heavy in his gut, curdling under the southwestern sun. And to do that, they’d have to kill Castiel first.

-+-

Castiel is still asleep when Dean returns to the room later, sprawled out under the covers with a pillow over his head. Mostly asleep, then—that pillow hadn’t been there when they left for breakfast. “I’m gonna head over and see if I can find a library, or a church,” Sam whispers, reaching for his laptop on the nightstand. Dean waves him off and locks the door behind him, and waits for the telltale rumble of the Impala to depart the motel parking lot before toeing off his shoes climbing into bed with Castiel.

Bare back to Dean’s chest, Castiel snuffles and clutches the pillow tighter, clearly awake but refusing to open his eyes. “Rise and shine,” Dean murmurs, kissing along Castiel’s sleep-warmed nape. Castiel refuses to budge. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore,” Castiel groans, relinquishing his hold on the pillow and tossing it to the floor. Shuffling, he turns over to face Dean, his eyes bloodshot around the edges. Nothing coffee can’t fix. “I don’t remember anything after I vomited.”

Dean tucks Castiel in closer, resting his hand to the small of Castiel’s back. “Didn’t think you would. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I’d like to know what you found,” Castiel says through a yawn. Since when do angels yawn, anyway? “I trust I didn't embarrass myself.”

“Nah,” Dean laughs. “C’mon, though. Gotta wake you up first.”

The Regalodge Motel’s coffee maker has seen better days. It sputters awake after Dean claps the side of it, not before hissing and spitting water into the pot. Over the last few months, he’s learned the only flavor that Castiel likes is caramel, and he studiously remembers every chance he gets to buy—or steal—a few K-cups or containers just to get them through the next few weeks. Castiel accepts the cup with gratitude, hair sticking in every direction and face marred with creases. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more than right now.

“You said you were Jesus’ guardian, or whatever that means,” Dean starts, but only after Castiel finishes half of the cup and the light has returned to his eyes. “And that you left Him after… you know.”

For a long few minutes, Castiel stares down into his coffee, watching his reflection. Seating himself at Castiel’s back, Dean rubs circles into Castiel’s nape, feeling the tension bleed from his muscles. As he relaxes, so too does his tongue. “I just witnessed the man I’d watched over for so long… For three decades, Dean. I watched Him die. I watched Him breathe His last breath, and I…” He stops, shakes his head. “That sort of trauma… I guess I forced myself to forget, and I gave up my post.”

Scooting closer, Dean rests his temple on Castiel’s nape, both arms encircling his waist. Castiel places his cup on the nightstand and covers Dean’s hands, his stomach deflating with his sigh. “But you’re still technically guarding Him,” Dean says, somewhat of a question.

“I suppose I am,” Castiel confirms. “But I haven’t visited since I left Jerusalem. I wouldn’t be able to tell you where He’s buried any longer, or if He’s still there.”

Dean closes his eyes, holds Castiel closer. “That’s what we’re afraid of.”

Reluctantly, Dean releases Castiel and allows him to turn until they face each other, knees bumping, hands still touching. Even with caffeine in his system, he still looks just as exhausted as Dean feels, down to the dark circles under his eyes. Gently, Dean strokes the back of his fingers along Castiel’s cheek, trailing behind his ear. Castiel falls into him without hesitance, eyes slipping shut. “What are you thinking?” Castiel asks.

“Sam thinks it’s demons,” Dean says, hesitant. Half-lidded, Castiel looks at him, his fatigue morphing into fear. “But, what would demons want with Jesus?”

Castiel shakes his head, his exhale trembling. “The body of Christ has been coveted among supernatural beings ever since the crucifixion,” he explains. “I always thought they were rumors, but it’s been long surmised that if demons were to take control of His vessel, that they could… influence the masses, as it were.”

Just barely, Dean keeps himself from laughing, but this time, out of fear. Just what they need—demons kickstarting another apocalypse while possessing Christ himself. “Now that’s a new one,” he says, palming his eyes. “Fuck, is it ever gonna get easier? Can we just buy a beach house somewhere and lay low for the rest of our lives?”

“I would hope so,” Castiel says. “It sounds… nice, actually.”

Dean huffs a laugh before sneaking in a kiss, just to feel Castiel smile. “Please tell me this is run-of-the-mill demons, though. There’s no such thing as knights or hierarchies, right?”

Castiel’s lack of response proves to be answer enough. Dean falls into the mattress in resignation, hands over his eyes. “Should’ve known this wouldn’t be easy,” he whines. Castiel pats his socked foot, and says nothing more.

-+-

“You could’ve at least picked us up,” Dean huffs the moment he walks into Sam’s study room at the library, sweat staining the back of his threadbare shirt.

Castiel digs through the backpack slung over Dean’s shoulders and offers him a towel, for once thankful that he can’t feel the warmth of the air outside. Dean, however, lets his displeasure be known, much to Sam’s amusement. Castiel shakes his head and pulls a chair from underneath the table, falling into it with a thud.

“Once you’re done bitching, I’ve got a list of some potential suspects,” Sam says, shoving aside a few worn out tomes with his gloved hands. He spins the book set in front of him around and displays the page to Castiel, all of the text written in Latin. “I pulled a couple strings with one of the desk clerks and got him to let me check out a few of the old Catholic texts, and I came across this. It’s listed as fiction, but it’s got testimonials from demon possessions as late as the nine-hundreds.”

“Way outta our time period,” Dean says. Shrugging off his backpack, he pulls out a water bottle and keeps a safe distance as he drinks, the towel now resting around his shoulders. “What, did demons just randomly decide they were gonna possess a bunch of poor saps?”

“They do the same thing now,” Castiel adds. He hovers his finger over the words, flipping through the tome without ever once touching the pages. Dean watches him with wide eyes, while Sam gives an approving hum. “Though, these names aren’t familiar.”

“That’s because half of them are fake,” Sam says. “I’ve been cross referencing what I can find in anthologies, and most of these were cases of psychotic breaks or dissociative identity disorder.”

“So people just lost it and that counted as a possession?” Dean asks, to Sam’s nod.

“A couple of these though, look.” Sam flips to a page halfway through the book, marked by a yellow Post-it note, folded in half and stuck in the margin. “These are high ranking demons. Supposedly Asmodeus had a penchant for possessing women for a few centuries.”

“That’s not surprising,” Castiel says, scanning over the passage. “He always did like to stir chaos wherever he went.”

Dean cocks a brow, leaning back in his seat. “You knew Asmodeus?”

“I knew all the angels,” Castiel replies. “Asmodeus was a Seraphim before the Fall. Supposedly, he became one of Lucifer’s most trusted adversaries, but whether he’s still alive remains to be seen.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not him,” Sam says. “There’s nothing extraordinary about them though, other than just pursuing vices. Demons tempting pastors into sin, destroying marriages—”

“Gossiping around the medieval water cooler,” Dean chimes in.

“Exactly. But this one is what’s worrying me.”

Sam flips to another page, this one filled with iconography and nearly illegible text. Castiel can make out the gist of it, the words unsettling his nerves.

‘ _He said I was the most beautiful of my village_ ,’ it starts, ‘ _but that I had flaws. That through Christ, I could become whole again, and that my family would come to love me despite my faults. I gave myself over to the angel Asmodeus, so that he may complete me, but all I witnessed behind his eyes was massacre. He told me he strove to kill his own kind, for the betterment of the world. But I didn’t see a reason why he should murder anyone—the world can be changed—_ ”

“She’s talking about the guardians,” Castiel says, catching Dean’s attention. “But why would Asmodeus give up for so long, and now come back?”

“Maybe now’s a good time?” Dean suggests. As much Castiel hates to admit it, he’s right.

With the sudden halt to the apocalypse, it would make sense for someone to try to restart it, just to finish what had been decades in the making. All of which, unfortunately, Castiel knows from experience. But as to why demons would want a stake, especially with Crowley at the helm, is a question he doesn’t want answered.

Speaking of which. “Do you think Crowley’s got something to do with it?” Dean asks offhand. Sitting up, he rests both elbows atop the table, out of the way of Sam’s collection of books. “You said he was helping you _stop_ the apocalypse, but what if he’s been going behind your back?”

Castiel shakes his head, wringing his hands in his lap. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he says. “But this goes against his best interests. He has nothing to gain here.”

“He’s already got control of hell,” Sam continues. “What else could he want?”

“World domination, probably,” Dean mumbles. “Okay, so Crowley’s out, and all we got here is a bunch of speculation. Other than dead angels nailed to a church, where do we even start looking?”

“None of the angels will speak to me,” Castiel says, slumping in his chair. “I wouldn't be of any help on that front.”

“You’re helpful in other ways that aren’t related to the angels,” Sam offers, and Dean nods. Castiel lowers his head, picking at his thumb. “Look, the least we could do is start looking for possessions. See if we can find a trail somewhere, maybe we’ll find someone along the way?”

“If it means we can get out of Arizona hell, I’m in,” Dean groans. “I’m pretty sure I’m sweating out of my eyeballs just looking at the sun.”

“Then we’ll head out in the morning.” Sam closes his books, one by one, while Castiel continues to skim through what he can.

 _It just doesn’t make sense_ , he thinks, flipping the page absentmindedly. An icon of a Seraph hovering above a cross embellishes the text, and Castiel longs. For what, he doesn’t know. Tucked away, his wings itch, and for the first time, he has no idea what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! As I said above, I originally wanted to finish this but never did. The reason I'm posting it is because I absolutely LOVE this story and have loved it ever since I wrote it, but I can't figure out how to finish it, as it got way too complicated. I can be persuaded to finish it, but only with hand-holding, because again, I have no idea where to start. There's another 5k or so written, but I don't like where it headed. IF it ever comes about that I'll finish it out, I'll announce it on Twitter, and I'll change the work status to in progress. 
> 
> In the meantime, this is my 200th written work! I think I'm at around 192 for Destiel, so eight more and I'll reach a milestone there too. Here's to more in the future!
> 
> Title is from the Enya song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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